The following is my own careful offering in response to both a [url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]lovely little drawing[/url] and the prodding of [url=http://lindy.tblog.com]another friend [/url] who was the first to be so brave.
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All his life, he’d tried to convince himself that he was naturally attracted to brunettes. He’d felt this somehow made him more interesting, if only to himself. And yet now, sitting several tables away, in a quiet corner of a bookstore café, he’d managed to clock a blonde.
It had been impossible not to notice her, not so much because there was anything about her that particularly demanded attention, but given that the bookstore had only just opened, she was one of just a handful of people sharing the space – each lost in his/her private corner, secure in the perceived anonymity provided by a stack of books and a cup of expensive coffee (or in her case lemonade). This was the only time of day in which he could stomach places like this. Soon this very room would be full of shouty people, laughing and talking about things in a manner that was meant to suggest that they were deeply intellectual, intensely witty and full of something so obviously worth noticing. The early mornings were different, however. The few people who found their way there when the place first opened came for the books, the calm whir of cracking spines and machinery, and the solitude of a single cup on the table. When the noise came, he’d have to leave of course, but for now, he rather liked the thought of this girl across the room who had, in his mind, come there for the same reasons he had.
His hands found the book at the top of his stack; the one whose review he’d read in the paper months ago, but had forgotten until yesterday when going through a heap of old newspapers, (determined to pitch most of them) he’d stumbled upon its title once again along with the drawing, that he’d scribbled in the margins, of a little naked boy holding a sign which read “protected by sellotape”. He’d kept the paper. But somehow, now he was having trouble concentrating on the object of his recollection. Instead his eyes peered over the top of the book, finding their way to the girl who seemed just lonely enough to need his company.
She wasn’t particularly beautiful or defined by features that traditionally inspired fascination or capriciousness, but nonetheless, he found himself studying her face: the thin lower lip which she was prone to bite when overwhelmed by some quiet confidence, the eyebrows – a little too far apart, perhaps, the sprinkling of dim freckles that peppered her fair skin, and, of course, the blonde hair he’d tried hard not to notice, which was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, but that kept falling against her cheek – only to be brushed back behind her ear (again and again) by two quick fingers . Taken separately, her features were strikingly ordinary, but together they seemed to make perfect sense to him. She too had a stack of books which she’d placed on the table, spines towards her, as though to shield the titles from gawking onlookers for fear of revealing too much of herself; but for the moment her attentions were divided between the open newspaper, which was splayed partially across the table, and the small notebook in which she scribbled notions he felt almost desperate to peer at from behind her shoulder. Perhaps this was her appeal, he thought to himself absently while turning another unread page of the book in his hand, the tugging allure of closely held secrets scribbled in a notebook – such things were difficult to resist, after all. Then he found himself caught between two contrasting sentiments: grateful for the downward gaze that had kept her from noticing his stare, while also silently wishing she’d look up for just a moment so he could see the color of her eyes. He knew it wasn’t the notebook.
Just then a large woman and a young man fumbled their way towards her table. They must have called her name, but he’d failed to notice them until she did, looking up and smiling in a way that was in equal measure full of a sincere gladness to see them and a similarly genuine irritation at having been spotted – despite expertly donned camouflage. The three chatted politely for a few moments, but she did not offer them a seat, and soon they were on their way towards other silences that needed breaking. When they were gone, she looked around the room, as though noticing for the first time, (as he was), that it had grown quite crowded. She began to pack up her things. She slipped the books, along with her notebook and pen, into the large green canvas bag that had been resting beneath the table, took a final sip of her lemonade, sighed in recognition of something inevitable and then made for the door.
He panicked.
He knew that no matter how long she sat there, he’d not have the courage to speak to her, and yet, he wasn’t quite ready to let her go either. He looked around the room, catching a glimpse of himself in the distorted reflection offered by a darkened glass refrigerator case. Behind him, he could just see the exit door open and then, (although no such device was present), he heard bells – the jingling of metals designed to alert the world of her leaving. Without thinking anymore on the subject, he rose from his seat and followed her.
Once under in the daylight and surrounded by air that wasn’t muddled by books and people, he realized how absurd this all was. He’d seen a girl. And now he was following her. Clearly, he’d lost his mind. But there was no turning back. He’d come to a precipice and jumped; the only thing left was to fall.
He could tell almost instantly that she had spent most of her life walking. She walked with purpose – not in a hurry – but with the stride of someone who’d used her feet to find her way through the world. He knew there would be no car waiting around the corner, and he smiled silently to himself. She’d flung the canvas bag over her left shoulder, letting her right hand swing in time with the opposite leg. She carried herself in a way that was different from the girl sitting in the bookshop. She seemed almost to be forcing herself to look straight ahead, unwilling to allow a passing thought to disconnect her – however briefly – from the world around her. He imagined her struggling not to look at her feet as she walked, and he wondered what had happened to her to make her feel she needed to be that brave.
At the end of several blocks she turned to cross the street and he saw that she was heading towards a nearby park. After a quick scan of the traffic, she sprinted across the lanes, and as she did so, she reached up and pulled the band from her hair, letting the ponytail spill open... a blonde hurricane falling against her back through tiny fingers of wind and movement. He stood on the corner watching her move a little further away from him, and for the second time he thought he might lose her to the world. When the cars allowed him, he too crossed, and hurried towards the sound of children playing and dogs barking. As his eyes adjusted to the dappled sunlight, he scanned a length of green for her, only to discover she’d stopped at the second clump of trees.
As he got a little closer, his walk slowed, and he found her retrieving a small blanket from her bag and laying it out with practiced precision. He noticed that she’d already taken off her shoes and seemed content to let her toes play in the cool grass for a bit before sitting in the shade. Once again, she removed the stack of books and the notebook – setting them to the side – readying herself for this next chapter of her day. As he neared her, he began to worry about what he would do next. Would he stand there gawking like a fool? Would he simply walk past her, only to turn around and walk past again, repeating the process until either she noticed and called for help or he simply could no longer bear his own idiocy? He found his answer on a nearby bench that afforded him an opportunity to, if nothing more, sit. Suddenly he wished he’d thought to steal one of the books from the bookstore so at least he could pretend to be reading again. Instead he feigned interest in one of his shoes and pretended to do something that resembled tying it even though, admittedly, it had no laces.
A few yards away she sat on her blanket reading a book from her stack. With her hair down now, he wondered about her age. For a moment he thought she was older than he was, but in the same instance, he mused that perhaps they’d been born on the same day. Just then, she looked up from her book, her green eyes catching his. Before he could think to look away, she looked back down at her book and he could see her teeth reach for her bottom lip. His heart began to race. He knew he’d have to get up and leave. There was no other choice really. He’d taken this path to its end.
But then she looked up again. And this time… she smiled.
Her smile, like the rest of her, seemed to reveal things he felt certain the rest of the world had overlooked. Her lips barely curled and in fact, she remained focused on that thin lower lip that appeared to bear the brunt of all she felt and yearned for. But the rest of her face gave away what she tried not to let her mouth betray. Like him, she seemed aware that she’d let her gaze linger a little too long, and looked back down at the book she was now only pretending to read, and for a moment he felt certain he heard a tiny giggle being carried to him on the wind. He knew he was smiling back.
Before standing, he reached down and pulled a clump of dandelions from the earth. He thought of all the times in his life he’d been caught looking at some girl across the room. He thought of all the pats on the back he’d received from well meaning, but equally awkward, friends whose advice usually consisted only of commands like “go get her” or “ooh, she likes you, mate” or other such phrases designed solely to send a young man off to his own death. He thought of all the lonely conversations he’d had in the dark, chastising himself for not being brave or brash or full of the boyish confidence he’d read about in books, only to then congratulate himself for being smart enough to recognize that she’d not have been interested in him anyway. He looked across the field to the girl whose eyes now rested on the open window between them and decided he wanted tonight’s conversation to be different.
He stared for a moment at the cluster of small white blooms in his hand. There was no one nearby to pat him on the back or offer a few foolish words of encouragement… but he heard them anyway.
He closed his eyes… and blew.
~~~~~~~~~~~
If you're tenacious enough to have waded through all of this, (and even if you’re simply skipping to the bottom), go see [url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]the art [/url] that inspired it… and by all means, leave a story of your own. The world could use a few more storytellers.
posted by: lindy (reply)
post date: 07.20.05 (8:06 am)
-sigh-
'he wondered what had happened to her to make her feel she needed to be that brave'
~heart wrenching.
'she reached up and pulled the band from her hair, letting the ponytail spill open... a blonde hurricane falling against her back through tiny fingers of wind and movement.'
~clearly she is as beautiful as I thought her to be.
'He closed his eyes… and blew.'
~I'm still holding my breath...
Any chance you'll pull an Alexandra Ripley and write the sequel against your inclination not to?
How many times have I sat in Borders and had similar experiences! The struggle remains...to find ways to destroy the walls that make it so hard to simply say hello and talk...more importantly to listen.
Nice piece indeed....all the way through to the very end. I'm tempted to ask for a sequel like Lindy but the work really stands nicely on it's own.
Thanks!
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.22.05 (5:08 am)
Yeah, like I'd even TRY to write a story after reading something like this. ;)
In the words of those of us who belong to a sacred sisterhood (young ladies who -- long ago and in a far away place known as the 1980's -- once considered themselves to be "valley girls") I can offer you only the following: "whatever." :)
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Thank you for your kind words, and for continuing to stop by, Jenn. I continue to enjoy your company.
j
posted by: lindy (reply)
post date: 07.22.05 (5:52 am)
Reply to: jennjr
*Applies peer pressure...
'Jenn! Jenn! Jenn! Jenn!'
hahahaha! Can you tell I'm incorrigible? You may be an admin (I'll try not to hold that against you), but I bet you are creative too. Quit holding out on us. ;)
I consider such a request quite the compliment, of course, but I fear I'm bound to disappoint. Like Melvin, I have no sense of what happens next. However, should inspiration strike, believe me, you'll be the first to know. (Ok. Second).
*wink*
j
posted by: lindy (reply)
post date: 07.22.05 (6:05 am)
Reply to: juniperflux
Awwwww, maaaaan. Shot down out of the starting gates.
Not soliciting links or anything but if you did want to link to mine, consider it OK. That really goes for anybody. It came as a bit of a surprise to me that linking to blogs could be an issue for anyone...may be due to my new guy ignorance...it's so hard to be old AND clueless...sigh!!!
Hmmmm. A preemptive linkage disclaimer, eh? Very interesting indeed. :)
Honestly, I didn't realize that there were rules about these things either. In fact, I don't think I've ever asked permission before sticking someone in the corner.
Silly me.
Anyway, thank you for the nod. It goes both ways.
j
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.22.05 (12:35 pm)
Reply to: juniperflux
*giggles* Sacred sisterhood...
Well, if we all survived using words like "grody" and the perms and REALLY BIG bangs, I think there's something there!
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.22.05 (12:35 pm)
Reply to: lindy
Maybe one of these days I'll suprise everyone (probaably most likely me!)
